


Respites

by Footloose_Poets



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose_Poets/pseuds/Footloose_Poets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamlet has returned to Denmark, but as relieved as Horatio is to see the Prince again, he can't help wondering what really transpired on the way to England.  Hamlet simply won't say what's going on inside his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respites

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after Hamlet has returned to Denmark (Between Act 4, Scene 6 and beginning of Act 5). Horatio has met with him and they're sharing a room at an inn before they return to Elsinore the next day. They're both unaware of Ophelia's demise.
> 
> I decided against attempting true Elizabethan English, so dialogue is modernised.

The small room Horatio had rented at the inn was adequate, if not humble. Upon their arrival Hamlet said little, watching with dark eyes as his friend unpacked what few possessions they’d carried. The Prince was not himself, and this concerned Horatio. Of course, he knew there was good reason for the young man’s dishevelled hair and dirty clothes, but nothing had yet been shared.

Horatio would not press the issue. Instead he sat at the table and read leisurely, having ordered them both food to be delivered shortly. Hamlet sat opposite him, chin resting on the dusty tabletop as he stared at the daub wall ahead. Despite the noise that reached them from the innkeeper’s rowdy family in the establishment’s main room, both men were enjoying a peace they hadn’t felt for a very long time.

Eventually, however, Hamlet would remember that nothing had yet ended, and this time with his dearest friend was only a short respite from the horrid mess unfolding at Elsinore.

“There is no one left, Horatio,” he said, breaking the silence that had hung between them since they’d arrived. “I trust no one.”

There was a cackle from outside – the wife, presumably. Horatio didn’t look up from his book.

“No one, my lord? How hard it must be to trust no one.”

The young Prince shifted his gaze to regard his companion thoughtfully.

“Except Horatio,” he added. “You are now the sole keeper of my trust.”

“I am flattered, my prince.”

There was a knock at the door, and a polite call. Horatio, seeing there would be no response from his friend, got up and answered it. The innkeeper’s attractive young daughter brought in a pitcher of light ale and a humble meal of bread and stew. Hamlet’s eyes followed her as she set the food down beside his head and left with an amiable smile. They lingered on the door she’d closed behind her.

“You may have my heart as well, Horatio,” he said. “If no one else in this world is honest why should I look beyond you?”

His meal was placed before him.

“I thought your heart belonged to the lady Ophelia,” Horatio mentioned.

“No,” Hamlet said immediately. “It shall belong to no woman. They’re all but breeders of sinners and monsters.”

“And men?”

“Villains – arrant knaves.” Not a beat was missed. The young man frowned at his stew, not yet willing to eat it. “There truly is no one, Horatio. Therefore take my heart, lest I have it broken or betrayed again by man and woman alike.”

Horatio took a spoonful of stew and admired its simple taste – a welcome change from the decadent flavours at the Danish court – before looking down at his friend.

“Surely the Prince is hungry after such a harrowing journey?” he encouraged.

Hamlet straightened enough to rest an elbow on the table, and reached forward to listlessly stir his stew. He took a scoop and watched it pour off his spoon and back into the bowl. His frown deepened.

“I am mad, Horatio. The king has said so.”

His friend sighed, taking a sip of ale.

“If you are mad sweet lord, then truly, I must be madder for believing you are perfectly sane.”

“But I am mad,” Hamlet insisted, still fiddling with his meal. “My father’s death has me distracted with grief and betrayal.” He paused. “Just ask my mother.”

The Prince eyed the book Horatio had set on the table. He reached forward and ran a thumb up one side in a small flourish of its pages. Apparently finding it quite amusing, he flourished it again – slower this time. If Horatio was the observant type he would have sworn he saw his companion’s eyes flicker briefly up to him, but he was ignored regardless. Mad, indeed. There was a third flourish and the Horatio took the book and dropped it on the floor.

“You see, my lord?’ he said with a humourless smile. “You are at least sane enough to remember how to irritate me so.”

There was the faintest spark of amusement in Hamlet’s tired eyes, but they were soon sombre once again.

“Horatio may have Hamlet’s sanity, then,” he said. “Stow it safely away where you intend to stow his heart.”

“Why does Hamlet no longer want his sanity?”

“He fears he will lose it, if it’s not stolen from him,” Hamlet told him. “In fact, take everything, Horatio. I am weary of it.”

“I fear you’re growing weary of everything, my lord.”

There was no reply. Hamlet stared dejectedly at the floor. Horatio had finished his own meal and the room suddenly became very still, filled only with the noise from the family outside filtering through the walls. Horatio noted that Hamlet needed a shave, and resolved to remind him later. Presently, however, this silence was of more concern; the Prince was far from the silent type.

“Your meal grows cold, my lord,” Horatio tried.

Hamlet once again regarded the offering before him. This time, when he took a spoonful he ate it. Horatio watched until he was satisfied the Prince was finally committed to his meal. He went back to reading.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Horatio answered it once again to the innkeeper’s daughter. She smiled meekly, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“Good even,” she said, twiddling her fingers and peering past him with failed subtlety. “I came to see if the sirs would like me to take their used dishes?”

Horatio was quite sure it wasn’t the norm for guests to have their empty bowls collected without request, but he let the girl through. She walked by him tentatively, eyes searching. They quickly settled upon Hamlet. He said nothing, but watched her closely as she busied herself gathering the tray, the napkins and empty dishes. Aware of his intrigue she turned to him, only vaguely regarding the meal he was still eating.

“Finished, good sir?”

“Not yet,” he replied. 

Horatio allowed himself a wry smile at Hamlet’s playful tone. He almost sounded like he had at Wittenberg, before all the grief and madness and anger. What some time away from the Court – and in the presence of freer women – could do for a man. When the girl was finished Horatio courteously held the door for her. Bidding them goodnight she left with one more furtive glance. Hamlet pointedly raised his eyebrows as his friend returned to his seat, and the two men sat in distracted silence.

“How goes Ophelia?” the Prince asked.

Horatio blinked, completely unprepared for the question. The image of the singing, shrieking young girl he saw only days earlier returned to him and he wondered what to say. He shifted awkwardly, reluctant to give his friend the whole ugly truth.

“The lady is still mourning.”

Hamlet nodded distractedly, chewing on another mouthful of meat. He stared out the window at the darkening sky. Horatio wasn’t sure if he had heard him after all. There was clearly something else on his mind.

“Is something the matter, my lord?” he asked him.

Immediately Hamlet shook his head, not meeting his gaze.

“Who has time for matter but those with no mind?” he mused.

Wordplay. Of course something’s the matter, but I won’t share it. Horatio sought a change of subject.

“And Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, my lord?”

“What of them?”

“Were they distressed to be off to England without the Prince?”

Hamlet paused and eyed him shrewdly. Horatio remained silent as he was examined by his closest friend; he saw no reason why he should feel guilty. Eventually, the Prince replied.

“I imagine they are faring well without me,” he said. “I see no reason why they shouldn’t.”

There was an unpleasant scrape of chair legs on floorboards as the young man rose from his seat, meal unfinished, and ambled toward one of the two under-stuffed, straw mattress beds against the far wall of their room.

“I am tired, Horatio.”

It was not merely a statement. 

The Prince would not speak further tonight, and Horatio wouldn’t try him. He knew better than to seek answers when the man refused – progress could not be made with persistence. Others failed to realise this; there was no doubt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern would eventually have received worse than one of the Prince’s verbal tirades if they’d remained any longer – they were probably lucky to have escaped to England.

Horatio opened his book once again. It wasn’t long before he could hear a soft, restful snore from Hamlet’s bed; a sign his mind was at last in peace. Horatio knew it would be a while before he too could settle. His friend’s earlier question still troubled him. How goes Ophelia? How, indeed. What a haunted, broken soul she’d become – and ultimately by the Prince’s hands. Horatio knew he would have to tell Hamlet in time, and he couldn’t see him receiving the horrid news well. Perhaps sleep would be preferable to reading tonight after all.

“Good night, sweet prince,” he sighed, closing his book. “I imagine we’ll need all the energy we can summon for the day to come.”


End file.
